


Lava

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-20
Updated: 2003-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-11 01:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: a story about Stella





	Lava

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Lava

## Lava

by Jodie Louise

Author's website: http://uk.geocities.com/jodie_mouse

Disclaimer: they are borrowed.

Author's Notes: thanks to e-friends

Story Notes: there is het, f/f and implied m/m in this story. there is also mention of self destructive behaviour.

* * *

Ray taught me how to do it. How you could cut your skin to leave a shallow line and blood gathering in the wound. 

It stung. 

The first time I caught him cutting into his flesh I felt sick. 

The second time I watched as he calmly carved a line into his arm. 

Afterwards I sat on him and let him fuck me, all the time following the blood red line run down his forearm. The blood burned a path down his arm like lava through the side of a mountain. 

And the blood was warm and salty in my mouth. Ray was warm and salty inside of me. Warm like lava. 

Much, much, later after the divorce I didn't have to watch him anymore. I didn't have to watch him jab the knife deeper and deeper into his stomach. I didn't have to see the white-silver scars crisscrossing his golden skin. 

Sometimes at night, after drinking lots of wine and eating lots of chocolate I would take the razor to my skin that Ray used to use and watch the redness blossom like flowers from the white skin beneath. I always lick the saltiness up, warm, vibrant. Alive -- like lava. 

Inside I felt cold. 

Seeing the blood run in trickles down my arm reminds me I am alive. And breathing. And human. 

I know that whatever I say about him Ray kept me grounded, kept me normal. He was... 

I have moved on. 

I have moved on. 

I've perfected what I say to my therapist so that she believes me. She does not know that I keep Ray's razor wrapped in one of his old shirts. She does not know how sometimes I feel the need for the razor to break my skin. To feel Ray inside me one last time. 

I have moved on. 

I have moved on. 

The next time I go to the bull pen in the 27th -- the next time I try to ignore the way Ray and the mountie stare at each other -- I notice her. 

Cropped top. Mini skirt. Hair pushed behind her ear. 

I wonder if I touched her whether -- it would somehow purge me of Ray. And I wonder what it would be like marble skin against olive, blonde and brunette. Virgin and slut. Except I am not a virgin and she is not a slut. 

Life is more complicated than black and white. Ray taught me that. 

So each time I see her I wonder what it would be like to taste her between her thighs. To make her shiver. To fuck her with my tongue. 

In my dreams I imagine what she would say if she saw my blood trickling down my arm weaving a path along the whiteness of my arm. I wonder what she would taste like if I kissed her -- I imagine she would taste of spearmint and coffee. And between her legs a taste of salt. 

And somehow the salt is the sweetest taste of all. At least that is what I imagine. 

I want to fuck her with my tongue. I want to suck her nipples. I want her because she is so different from Ray. 

But it is my want. 

And to be strong I must deny my want. 

I will lay at night with Ray's razor wrapped in his shirt beneath my pillow. 

I will not entertain thoughts of her. 

I will not. 

And when I next see my therapist I will not mention her, like I don't mention that I still have Ray's shirt. Like I do not mention I think I made a mistake. Like I never mention all the things that have ever really mattered to me. Because if I mention them to her they will somehow diminish into mere words, mere emotional reactions to events in my childhood. And I don't want that. 

I want these things to remain special to me. 

I don't want them to be -- analysed. After all, in the dead of night I analyse myself under the cool cotton sheets. 

Sometimes I think I should stop going to my therapist. 

After all what can she offer me which I cannot resolve with the cut of a steel blade and fingers between my legs? What indeed? 

* * *

End Lava by Jodie Louise:

Author and story notes above.


End file.
